RUIN MY 4.0

Aiden's POV

6:03 a.m. and I'm still reading.

The overhead bulb in my dorm room flickers but I ignore it because, like most things, I don't have the money to fix it. 

My anatomy textbook is open on my lap, page 427, the brachial plexus diagram swimming in front of my eyes because I haven't slept and the words keep rearranging themselves into dollar signs.

 My phone buzzes on the floor beside me but I don't pick it up knowing it's Mom checking if I'm awake to know if I sent the $80 for Lily's field trip yet. 

I haven't.

I smell horrible and I know I need a shower, badly, but the hot water ran out sometime around 3 a.m. and I'm not in the right mental state to pour freezing water on my body so I sit just sit down calmly like I don't have somewhere to be in the next thirty minutes. 

At 6:30 I have to be at the coffee shop to open. At 8:10 I have to be in the front row of Anatomy 101 looking like a properly functioning student. I can't afford to be late to either.

I flip the page, rub the sleep out of my eyes, and keep reading.

'Just ten more minutes...' I tell myself. I can't stop till I've learnt it all. 

*...*...*...*...*...*...

The bell over the door of Brew & Burn chimes at exactly 6:27 a.m. and I flip the sign to OPEN with the same mechanical smile I've perfected over two years of morning shifts.

"Morning, Aiden!" Mrs. Delgado sings, already in line even though we just opened. She's here every single day for her large oat-milk latte with an extra shot and exactly three raw sugars. I have her drink started before she finishes fishing singles out of her coin purse.

"Morning, Mrs. D. You're looking radiant as always."

She blushes the same way every time. I'm dead on my feet, but my smile stays welded on.

By 6:50, people have begun to queue. I take their orders, call names, wipe spills, and every thirty seconds my eyes flick to the clock above the pastry case.

7:02. 7:09. 7:17.

I catch my reflection in the window as I wipe a table: On the outside, I look pretty normal but the ache building up in my head says otherwise.

7:28. 

My replacement, Jess, finally strolls in chewing gum and scrolling through TikTok. I clock out at 7:29:59, untie my apron, and I'm out the door before she starts asking how my weekend was and all that crap.

'The sprint to campus is twelve minutes if I run fast enough.' I think to myself.

*...*...*...*...*...

By the time I reach the school gate, my lungs are burning and my shirt is soaked with sweat, but then I run into the bathroom and quickly change my clothes to the decent set I always keep with me that makes me look like a real student of St. Lucian's Medical Campus.

I skid into the anatomy lecture hall at 8:08 exactly, slide into the front row, and pull out my notebook.

At 8:10 sharp, Dr. Elena Whitlock strides in with an irritated frown on her face. Mrs. Elena is a fifty-seven year old retired neurologist who was legendary for eating first-years alive.

"Upper limb," she says without preamble, clicking the projector on. The first slide is the brachial plexus.

I exhale through my nose in relief. I diagrammed this exact thing last Wednesday. I know it forward, backward, and in my sleep (which I haven't had in three days).

Whitlock doesn't waste time. "Someone tell me the nerve that supplies the thenar muscles and the first two lumbricals."

When no one raises their hand, she turns to me.

"Mr. Cross?"

"Median nerve. Specifically the recurrent branch."

A couple of snickers come from the back but I ignore them. Whitlock's mouth twitches.

"Correct. And the exception to the 'first two lumbricals' rule?"

"Ulnar nerve supplies the flexor and opponens, but also the medial two lumbricants"

Whitlock actually smiles. "Excellent."

She continues the lecture. Pausing in-between to ask me questions she's sure I won't know but I keep surprising her by answering every question correctly. 

Halfway through, someone in the third row mutters, "Jesus, they haven't even taught us this shit. How does he know all this?"

I pretend I don't hear it but pride unfurls in my chest at the statement.

At 9:45, the lecture ends. People start packing up. And while I'm sliding my pens into their exact slots, Whitlock's voice sounds.

"Mr. Cross. A moment."

When the room clears, I slowly make my way towards her. My heart is suddenly hammering harder than it did during the sprint here.

She folds her arms as she stares at me.

"I've taught this course for nineteen years," she says. "I have never and I mean, never, had a first-year walk in already knowing the entire upper and lower limb, the pelvis, and half the head and neck before week three. Your diagnostic exam score was perfect. Your practical last week was perfect. Your answers today were..." She shakes her head, almost laughing. "You're terrifying, Aiden."

Heat crawls up my neck. I suddenly don't know where to look.

"I don't say this lightly," she continues. "Whatever you're doing, however you're doing it, keep doing it. Because students like you are the reason I still show up to this circus every morning."

The warm thing feeling in my chest swells up till I feel tears at the back of my eyes. "Thank you, Dr. Whitlock," I manage. My voice is rough.

She waves me off, already turning to her laptop. "Go. Get coffee or sleep or whatever you do. I'll see you Wednesday."

I walk out in a daze.

The hallway is bright with morning sun that shines through the tall windows. Students stream past me laughing, complaining about the quizzes and comparing Apple watches. I lean against the cool marble wall for just a second and let my head fall back.

Every blister from standing eight hours at the coffee shop, every skipped meal, every night I chose flashcards over sleep, it was all worth it.

For one minute, the weight of everything I'm held back with lifts from my shoulder. 

But it was obviously too good to be true.

My phone buzzes and my heart stops at the message I receive.

Mom: Lily threw up at school. The nurse says it's bad and that she needs to be picked up. I'm at work till 6.

I push off the wall, and head for the bus stop immediately.

When am I ever going to get a fucking break?